


Some Kind of Vigilante

by AcidKraken



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Action, Anti-Hero, Assassination Plot(s), Brainwashing, Dynamic Duo, Gunplay, Little Lamplight (Fallout), Mind Control, Reluctant Hero, Slavery, The Enclave - Freeform, The Great Game, Tongue-in-cheek, Underworld (Fallout), Violence, WIP, Work In Progress, paradise falls (fallout)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-06-13 21:46:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15374016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidKraken/pseuds/AcidKraken
Summary: Desmond hated his latest rival, first and foremost, because he was brazen. Cocksure. He left his mark on people - on their brains, to be precise - and out of that came a trail of living breadcrumbs scattered wherever he went. If rumors were anything to go by, that trail led straight into this miserable rats’ nest called Underworld.---Desmond chases another rival in the Great Game - an old nemesis with a knack for breaking the human spirit. When the odds mount against him, Desmond must rely on an unlikely ally, or risk losing the Game for good.(Gen/action. Sequel to my Charon gen ficSettling the Books. You might enjoy reading it beforehand, but it's by no means a requirement.)





	1. Chapter 1

Desmond Lockheart took pride in being a dangerous man. He also took pride in having restraint. That virtue kept his hands in his pockets, rather than throttling the pink-haired ghoulette in front of him. 

There was a time and place for violence, and it wasn't now. Not here, in front of the National Museum of History, where months of searching had led him. Violence _did_ inspire compromise, and perhaps it would get him past the door. But it wouldn’t make him any friends here, and certainly wouldn't get him the answers he came for.

Unfortunately, the last time his mere reputation ended an argument was when he still had skin. And _by god_ , if there was one thing this ghoulette enjoyed, it was arguing. She was sneering at him, and it was all Desmond could do to keep his cigarette between his teeth. He was itching to ash it on her face.

“Well?” she said. “We have rules in Underworld. You either follow them or you don’t come in.”

Desmond scowled. Any notable chapter in his life came with obstacles. This one’s name was Willow. A pretty name, so naturally, it didn’t fit her at all. She was the lone sentry at the door, and considering her penchant for being insufferable, how she'd manage to survive this long without backup was up for debate.

“What's the problem?” she continued. “If you’re too good for us, you can take a hike, sweetheart.”

She had a dangerous habit of leaning forward when she talked. Desmond jabbed his cigarette at her. It didn’t make skin contact, but he had a vivid imagination.

“Bring your face one more inch closer to mine,” he warned. “And I’ll make you wish your nerve endings rotted away with the rest of you.”

“Threaten me all you want. I said you can't bring that dog in with you, and I meant it.”

Desmond glanced to the side. That dog - _his dog_ \- was still snarling at her, as it had been for nigh on five minutes, dribbling from the mouth. It was a junkyard mongrel, yet to earn a fitting name, but it didn’t make a lick of difference. Desmond loved that fucking dog. It was the only creature in the wasteland besides himself that was worth a damn. 

“Give me one good reason why I can’t,” Desmond said.

“Seriously? Christ, look at that thing. It's feral. It’s got... fleas. And scabs. And probably rabies.”

She wasn’t wrong. The creature was a far cry from Freki or Geri, but it was charming in its own way. Willow didn't seem to agree. Typically, Desmond knew to pick his battles. But leaving his friend outside was undignified, and he wasn’t going down without a fight.

“You’re one to talk,” he said, at last. A weak comeback, but it’d have to do.

Willow laughed and bounced her gun against her leg.

“I could take this rifle and shove it up your ass, you know.”

“I'd like to see you try.”

“I might,” Willow said. “But I’m still trying to be civil. Really, guy, what's your problem?”

Desmond scoffed, flicked his cigarette onto the concrete, and ground it beneath his shoe.

“My _problem_ is you’re standing between me and something you couldn’t possibly wrap your shriveled brain around. I’m here on business. The kind you don’t ask about. If you had any concept of who you’re dealing with, you wouldn’t give me lip.”

“Is that so, big shot? Being rude open a lot of doors for you, does it?”

“When it doesn’t,” he said. “I have other methods that work just fine.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. So you normally get the runaround with respectable wasteland establishments? Cause that’s what we’re operating here. Or trying to.” She looked at his dog and grimaced. “I’d rather not put another nail in the coffin by letting that... _thing_ in here.”

Willow leaned in again. It was a bad habit, one that merited correcting. The dog seemed to agree, but then again, it bristled at anyone that got too close to him, friend or otherwise.

“Do you judge everything by appearance?” Desmond asked. “Because a gal like you definitely shouldn’t.”

“Sticks and stones,” Willow sighed. “And you’re missing the point. Your mongrel hasn't stopped snarling at me since I asked who you were. You haven’t answered me, and you’re an asshole. That’s the real problem.”

“Maybe you shouldn't pry, then.” 

“Maybe,” Willow quipped. “But that’s my job, so spit it out. Who are you, and why should I let you in?”

Desmond bit his tongue. Being honest with her wasn’t prudent, but this conversation was going in circles. He’d leave out the intimate details, like the sheer guesswork that led him here. He’d struck out on a limb, following snippets of hearsay that smacked of another old rival. And none of that was any of her damn concern. 

_“My_ name is Desmond Lockheart,” he said, brushing the grime off his suit. “Not that it means anything to a nobody like you.” 

“And what brings you to Underworld, Mister Lockheart?” Willow asked. “And before you start, it definitely _is_ my business.”

Desmond didn't so much as flinch. An amateur would tell a bold-faced lie, but he wasn’t a dabbler in subterfuge. He’d spent a lifetime donning identities like cheap shirts. The closer a ruse was to the truth, the better it fit.

“Little bird told me a fellow’s brains got plastered all over a wall in this place not too long ago,” he said. “I’m interested in the full story.”

“Was he a friend of yours?”

“Who?”

“Ahzrukhal.”

“My god, that’s a stupid name. And no, I don’t make friends.” 

A nauseating sound came from Willow’s throat, something akin to a stifled chuckle.

“Something funny?”

“Nothing, just... You’re boring. Misanthropic lookie-loo. One-in-a-million. Enjoy your stay.”

She stepped aside, rolled her eyes, and pulled out a carton of cigarettes. It was exactly the reaction he hoped for, but being written off stung more than Desmond would openly admit. He straightened his tie, pushed up his glasses, and shook it off.

“Well?” Willow prodded. She flicked open her lighter and took a drag. “Go. _In._ I just want to finish my cigarette in peace. Can I do that? If I open the door, would you get out of my sight? _Please?”_

He headed for the door, and his dog followed suit. Willow cleared her throat.

“Not so fast. You heard me the first time.”

Desmond took a deep breath, and made a point to exhale slowly. 

“You.” He pointed at the dog. _“Stay._ You get what I’m saying, don’t you?”

It very likely did not. Desmond wasn’t fooling himself. This was a partnership of convenience, measured in food scraps and the odd corpse that he left in his wake. Not the kind that lent itself to waiting around. Still, he knew the dog trusted him. At the sound of his voice, it stopped snarling. It took weeks to earn that much.

Today, he’d have to gamble on that hard-earned trust. Noble men made sacrifices, and he’d begun to fancy himself as such. If the entry fee was losing another dog, then so be it. And if that loss stung too much, there was no better salve than a certain dead ghoulette.

He narrowed his eyes at Willow, and as a parting gesture, gave the dog a quick scratch behind the ears. It growled. Desmond didn't take it personally. He’d nearly lost a finger the first time he tried it. Most days, the animal wasn’t discerning - tended to gore anything that approached it. 

To Desmond’s great satisfaction, Willow fit that description as much as he did. The dog ignored his command and stuck to his heel. It got one paw over the museum’s threshold before Willow jammed her boot across the doorway. The dog let out a hellish snarl and thrashed her leg with a whirlwind of yellow fangs and drool.

“God damn it!” she wailed. She braced herself against the door frame. “You break the skin and and I'll cave your fucking head in.”

With a swift kick to the ribs, she sent the dog tumbling back, buying a few seconds to swing her rifle around her shoulder. Desmond turned back and grabbed the weapon by the barrel before she could get a grip on it. He stared her dead in the face. 

“You shoot my dog and you'll be _dead,”_ he warned. 

Willow yanked the rifle from his grasp and scrambled up on the ledge above the metro stairs. On its feet in a flash, the dog planted its haunches in the dirt directly beneath her and went right back to snarling. 

“Better make it a quick visit then,” Willow snapped. “Or you might have to follow through on some of that tough talk. Asshole.”

If only she knew how much he appreciated the invitation. Willow didn’t put the rifle away, but she didn’t point it anywhere problematic, either. Satisfied, Desmond let the doors shut behind him. 

The museum was a world apart from the sun-bleached ruins outside. The place was dark, damp, and filled with ruined relics. _Underworld._ A campy name, at best. It was just as unremarkable as he’d imagined. He crossed the rotunda without giving the skeletons so much as a second glance, and pushed aside the doors of the inner chamber. Behind them was a squatters’ den, a hovel filled with walking corpses. He sized up the lot of them at a glance. Like most ghouls, they’d run out of purpose, but kept living anyways. 

He didn’t envy them. Desmond wasn’t like most ghouls. He had a higher calling, a reason he’d sunk his claws into a rough and messy life, and that was to rid the world of one evil bastard after another. Most things became repetitive after two centuries, but the Great Game never got stale. Each adversary inspired a different flavor of loathing than the one before. 

His current quarry, unlike Calvert, lacked the litany of personal transgressions that made victory so delicious. But score-settling was just one of many reasons to hate someone, and hatred was one of Desmond’s dearest pastimes. It kept him focused. 

He hated his latest rival, first and foremost, because he was brazen. Cocksure. He left his mark on people - on their brains, to be precise - and out of that came a trail of living breadcrumbs scattered wherever he went. And, if the rumors were anything to go by, that trail led straight into this miserable rats’ nest called Underworld.

Yes, this place was dismal, and it seemed like the type of place where prying information out of people would be a chore. The ghouls here kept their eyes down, the types that clammed up when confronted.

He passed them over and contemplated the Mister Gutsy hovering at the top of the stairs. He’d dealt with his fair share of combat robots in his day. But that time was long past, and well-preserved models were few and far between. Like him, they were relics, and the sight of them brought back snippets of the Great War, both good and bad. It was the bad that needed remembering, because it was the bad he’d devoted himself to weeding out. 

He made his way towards it. He had a predilection for machines, because what little guff they gave was more manageable than the bullshit he got from organics. Not to mention that centuries of living tended to fade the past a bit, and Desmond took any chance he could to bring it back into focus. It was training, in a way. Forgetting was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

He was paces away when an unwelcome hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his reverie. He tensed, shrugged it off, and took a generous step back, giving the ghoul that had closed in behind him a standoffish once-over. He was haggard and feeble as the rest of them, despite the well-worn armor and rifle across his back. Worst of all, he had a penchant for unwanted eye contact.

“Hey there,” the ghoul said. “You’re a new face. Name’s Quinn.”

Desmond glared and turned with all intent to keep walking. The ghoul stepped around him and cut him off, hands out, but wise enough this time to keep them to himself.

“Slow down, man,” he insisted. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“Going to talk to the robot, not to you.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. Better to leave him to his patrol. He’s trigger happy, especially when it comes to strange ghouls and unwanted conversation...”

“Is that right? Well. I think we could find common ground.”

It took a few seconds, but he recoiled a bit when it finally sank in.

“Oh,” he said. “Sheesh. Nevermind, then. I was just trying to be helpful.”

“A bar, then.”

“What?”

“If you want to be _helpful,_ then tell me where the bar is.”

“Up the stairs to the left. Carol’s Place. Only real establishment in this place, really, and they serve booze now. But-”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

He brushed past the ghoul, continued up the stairs, and pushed open the first set of double doors. He was greeted by a well-kept diner, as homely as could be for a place that was falling down around him. It wasn’t the seedy hell-hole he expected, but maybe the bar’s reputation was on the mend. Rumors lent themselves to exaggeration, anyhow, and what little he’d collected about this place had all the makings of an urban legend in it’s fetal stages. 

Behind a countertop stood a ghoulette in a pink dress. She turned, a look of shock on her face quickly shifting to a serviceable smile. She stepped up, clutching a clean glass, so visibly flustered that she nearly knocked it off the ledge as soon as she set it down. 

“Oh!” she said. “Someone... Someone new! Always nice to see a fresh face around here! Welcome to Carol’s Place. I’m, well... I’m Carol. Would you-”

“I want to speak to your bouncer,” he said flatly. 

“Um? We don’t... We don’t have a-”

Another ghoulette emerged from behind the counter and stepped between him and Carol. 

“You've got the wrong place,” she said.

That certainly cleared things up. Desmond rolled his shoulders. Carol looked at her friend aghast. 

_“Greta,”_ she hissed. 

The ghoulette ignored Carol and crossed her arms. 

“You're looking for the Ninth Circle,” she said. “Across the landing.”

Desmond nodded and turned to leave. 

“My mistake. I’ll be going.”

“One sec, hun,” Carol called. 

Desmond glanced back. Greta rubbed the bridge of her decayed nose, and Carol shrank a bit.

“The... The only thing you'll find over there is a drug den, now,” she said, speaking carefully. “Nobody watching the place. The bouncer there left, right after, ah...”

Greta sighed.

“He shot the owner in the face,” she said.

“I'm aware of that,” Desmond said.

Greta blinked.

“Oh?” she said. “Good. Then you don't need to stay and chat.”

“Greta-”

 _“Carol._ Don’t encourage him. If he’s asking questions about the Ninth, then let him make trouble on their watch.”

“He can’t buy anything if you don't let him stay.”

“He’s not _going_ to buy anything,” Greta hissed.

Desmond sniffed.

“She’s right,” he said frankly. “I didn't come here for afternoon tea. I came here for answers.”

 _“See?”_ Greta insisted. “He’s snooping. Let him snoop over there.”

Carol wrung her hands. 

“But...” she sighed. “Nobody at the Ninth Circle can string a sentence together... If you've got something to ask, better ask it here. But first, sit down. Anywhere you like... Please?”

Desmond sighed, weighing his options. A ghoulette who was more than willing to chat was less effort on his part than wringing information out of chem-heads. He could always fall back on them, anyway, if he felt like getting violent. He straightened his suit and stepped back from the door. Carol brightened and gestured at the tables inside. Desmond had his pick of the place. There wasn’t anyone in here, aside from a disheveled green-haired ghoul in the corner, who spent more time staring into his glass of whiskey than actually drinking it. Desmond picked the furthest seat from him.

Carol hovered awkwardly by the table, and Desmond cleared his throat. 

“You know what?” he said. “Maybe you can get me something.”

“Oh! O-Okay.”

“Meat, just meat. Whatever you have. Don't bother cooking it.”

It was wishful thinking, but he could only hope to have a use for it after this was all over. 

“You got it,” she said hastily. “Coming right up.”

It was an odd request, but she slipped back to the kitchen without missing a beat. Open-minded. She had that going for her. The ghoulette that took her place, however, was another story. Greta loomed next to Desmond’s seat. Pinning him with a steely glare, she dragged a chair over from another table and plunked down in front of him.

“I’ve never seen you before. Not once,” she said. “Before you start asking questions, why don’t you introduce yourself? Who are you? Why are you so curious about Charon?”

Desmond raised an eyebrow.

“Who, now?”

“The bouncer, you asked about the bouncer.”

“I didn’t know his name. I knew he killed his employer. And I knew he was... different. That’s why I’m here.”

“What do you mean, different?” Greta demanded.

“I’m sure you know.”

“Well. He was always _off,”_ Carol called from behind the counter. “Never quite there. And he always, well, he...” 

She trailed off. Greta waited a moment, then spoke up.

“He was _obedient,”_ she said.

“Brainwashed,” Desmond said. “He was brainwashed.”

Something clanked from behind the counter, like Carol had dropped a plate but not quite broken it. Greta sighed.

“That's... Another way of putting it,” Greta said. “Charon did everything Ahzrukhal asked, even though he hated his guts. That is, until he up and shot him. he didn't have a lot going on upstairs, but knew how to hold a grudge...”

“When he smeared his employer’s brains across the joint, what happened? He just turned and left?”

Carol reappeared with food.

“Well-” she began.

The ghoul in the corner slammed a glass down on the table and spoke up. 

“You’re asking touchy questions,” he said.

 _“Crowley,”_ Carol hissed. 

“He’s got a point,” Greta muttered.

Desmond pinched the bridge of his nose and shot the ghoul a glare. 

“Was I fucking talking to you?” he snapped. 

“No. But you'd better listen.” The ghoul - Crowley, apparently - sat back in his chair, looking Desmond up and down in a feeble attempt at intimidation. “Charon ran off with that Vault dweller, the one they're always jerking off to on GNR. They bought him off Ahzrukhal. He’s _theirs_ now. Done deal. Wouldn't take kindly to you sticking your nose in their business.”

Desmond wrinkled his nose. Now that was something he had to get used to. Hearing it on the radio was one thing, but even backwater locals wouldn’t shut up about it. The nobody he’d ordered around Point Lookout for months turned out to be a _somebody,_ and that somebody was a goddamn folk hero. It was a sore spot for Desmond. It meant his snap judgments left something to be desired. 

“What are you scowling about?” Crowley demanded. 

Desmond bit back the urge to change his line of questioning. Intriguing as the smoothskin was, they were a puzzle for another day. He had a more pressing game in front of him.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “So he listens to whoever owns him? That’s intriguing. I’m itching to know who made him that way.”

The ghoul visibly shrank in his chair.

“That’s... lovely. Can't help you.”

“Evidently fucking not.”

Carol emerged from the back, meekly set the plate of raw meat on the table, and backed away. 

“Why are you asking so many questions, anyway?” Crowley demanded. “Greta’s right to pin you down. What's it to _you?_ You barge in here, don’t give a name, and start asking about things we’d all like to forget about. Presumptuous as all hell.”

He pointed a finger at Desmond. He had poor manners, and Desmond was all too happy to be the one to correct him. Carol interjected before he could get the chance. 

“Please, stop it, Crowley,” she sighed, lingering a few steps away. “You're being rude.”

Greta sniffed.

“He gets melodramatic when he drinks,” she said. 

“I can see that,” Desmond mused. “Crowley, was it? I have a question for you. Simple answer, yes or no. Do you know what microwaves can do to the human brain?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“An easy one. _Yes, or no?”_

“...No.”

Desmond leaned forward. 

“Of course you don’t. But the man I’m looking for certainly does. He made a hobby of melting the insides of people's skulls. For science, and all that. It’s always _science_ with these fucks, isn’t it? Anyways, I’m going to kill the bastard. And to do that, I need information. If you can’t give that to me, then stop interrupting the people who will.”

“What are you then, some kind of vigilante? Is that supposed to make us like you?”

Desmond didn’t respond. Questions like that often answered themselves. Sure enough, Carol took a step forward. 

“You know...” she said. “A ghoul _did_ come in here once to talk to Ahzrukhal. Never seen him around here before. Never saw him again. A flashy fellow, nice suit... Didn't fit in here at all. Word is, he’s the one who gave Charon to Ahzrukhal.”

Desmond suppressed a shiver. These were more than ghosts, now. He wanted to jump up, shake Carol and make her tell him everything she knew. But he leaned back instead, putting on the air of someone weighing the truth in her words. 

Greta scoffed, and looked back at Carol.

“That’s if you want to believe hearsay from drunks,” she muttered. “Speaking of which, Crowley could have told you that, but he’s just being difficult.”

“No, I’m being smart,” Crowley growled. “And not telling strangers things they have no business knowing. I know trouble when I see it. I came here for some peace and quiet. I'm not interested in Hero Complex over here ruining that for me.”

Desmond held his tongue. Whatever false impression Crowley had of him was having a fascinating effect on Carol, and correcting it would be an amateurish mistake. Her interest in Desmond, until now, had been polite. Hospitable. A little desperate, maybe, but nothing he could pin down. She’d been lingering at a safe distance, but now she took a step forward, staring at Desmond and pressing her lips together as if she was reaching for the right words to say. 

“You should understand...” she began. “It’s hard to talk about it. No one here does. We're all guilty of looking the other way. Some of us feel... worse about it than others.”

“Carol,” Greta sighed. “You need to stop feeling guilty. It’s not your problem. It never was.”

Interesting. All this fanfare on Crowley’s part had reopened old wounds. All Desmond had to do was rub some salt in them when opportunity presented itself. For now, his silence worked well enough on it’s own.

“Not many people remember when he started working for Ahzrukhal,” Carol said wistfully. “Charon, I mean. Most ghouls here are either too unraveled to think back that far, or they were never here to begin with. But it never sat well with me. No one knew where he came from, and he couldn't string two words together, not that Ahzrukhal let him talk to anyone. It’s easy to accept things around here when it's all you've known. I can't blame anyone for turning a blind eye. But there was something wrong with him. Something that that ghoul, or whoever - did to him. There isn't another word for what he was. He was... Is... A _slave.”_

There was something about how she said the word, the way she choked on it. Desmond waited, letting the silence drag on. Carol sighed heavily.

“I should have done something about it,” she said at last.

“There wasn't anything you _could've_ done,” Greta said. 

Carol opened her mouth to retort, but Desmond spoke first.

“Your friend is right,” Desmond said. “I know what goes into making a man like that firsthand. It’s not something you can fix.”

Carol stared at him, horrified. Desmond softened his expression, as much a mock show of sympathy as it was an effort to keep his predatory glee from showing on his face.

“The man I’m looking for... He acquires people. Buys them. Changes them. I imagine he enjoys the world we live in. The state of it. It’s easy, now, to buy anything for the right price. And children aren’t hard to come by.”

Carol turned away, curling inward. Desmond leaned in.

“He's a sick bastard,” he continued. “And he's going to keep doing this, unless someone puts a bullet in the fucker’s brain. I'd like that person to be me.”

He was toying with her, playing with her desire for justice. At least, that’s what he told himself. Again, the veneer he’d conjured up was close to the truth - uncomfortably so. He delighted a bit too much in playing the hero.

“I want to help you,” Carol said. “I really do. But I don’t know what else I can say.”

“Slaves. I know he buys them from somewhere. I'll cut him off at the source.”

“Well.... There's Paradise Falls. It's a long way west from here. But it’s all you hear about on the radio, now... The Lone Wanderer’s hunting slavers, already wiped them out up north in Pittsburgh. And the slavers left at Paradise Falls... They’re spooked. And they’re dangerous. You... You shouldn't go there by yourself.”

It was a good a place as any to snoop. And maybe fate would have a sense of humor, and send his path running across a certain smoothskin a second time. Desmond stood, and gave Greta and Carol a curt nod.

“I appreciate the help,” he said. He thought it cloying, but he knew better than to shit on a good lead.

Crowley scoffed, not looking up from his drink.

“What am I,” he muttered. “Chopped liver?”

Desmond ignored him and grabbed the skewer of meat from the table. 

“Oh dear,” Carol said. “Don't you want to sit down and eat that?”

“Hah. No. It's not for me. I'll be leaving now.”

“Don't let the door hit you,” Crowley muttered. 

On a bad day, Desmond would have given the ghoul what for. But today, of all days, was far from it. Desmond could hardly suppress his elation. He remained dignified - with a sober expression and a calm gait - until he opened the door to the Mall outside, and at once, his face cracked into an undignified grin. The sight before him was too much.

Willow was treed, curled up on the concrete ledge, rifle in hand. And at her feet, snarling, frothing, was his dear friend. Willow looked up, and her eyes widened, then narrowed to slits.

“Call off your stupid mongrel!” she shrieked.

Desmond laughed.

“My _stupid mongrel_ isn't trained. Not much I can do.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I'll give you three more seconds, then I'm shooting this mutt in the head!”

“Good god. Patience, ever fucking heard of it? Let's hope you're less appetizing than uncooked squirrel.”

He tossed a scrap, and the dog fell upon it. Desmond pushed up his glasses and peered at Willow.

“It’s your lucky day.” 

He whistled as he passed by the metro entrance, waving another scrap of meat. The dog bounded after him, and he turned to Willow and flashed her another toothy grin.

“I should really thank you,” he said. Today, he felt unusually magnanimous.

Willow sneered at him.

“For _what?”_ she demanded.

Desmond smirked.

“Petsitting.”


	2. Chapter 2

Desmond’s trek across the wasteland left plenty of time for doubt to set in. He didn’t expect results - not immediately, at least. The thrill of the hunt often wore off, trails went cold. That was typical. The situation at Paradise Falls, however, was not. There was something strange happening here. Something that raised more questions than answers. 

Hunkered behind a pile of gutted cars, Desmond watched a battle unfold. He’d chosen this spot with a quiet stakeout in mind, and full cover seemed - until the last hour or so - a more cautious choice than the situation demanded. Now, amidst a growing roar of screams and blasterfire, he found a new appreciation for the mountain of scrap shielding him from brunt of it. 

Paradise Falls had a raider problem. That much was evident. There were enough of them gathered here to constitute a small army. More than enough to last through heavy casualties, and keep this messy little scrap raging for a nearly an hour. Desmond counted at least two dozen corpses within spitting distance. The air hung thick with the smell of charred flesh, and the stench kept his dog pacing. Desmond, on the other hand, remained still, a concerted effort to slow his pulse and _think._

He was anxious, that much he could admit. Something wasn’t right, and it wasn’t the mayhem on the slavers’ doorstep that he found unusual. He _expected_ this, and so did they. He'd watched, night after night, as the residents of Paradise Falls stayed put, well behind the walls of their compound. They lingered on rooftops and ramshackle towers like they were bracing for a siege. 

Therein lie the problem. They were prepared for this. _Too_ prepared. Desmond clutched his rifle in a white knuckle grip. A green hail of plasma fire scattered off the chassis in front of him, a reminder of what he couldn’t explain. He’d spotted them on the first night - the glint of pre-war tech in the hands of slavers standing guard. Plasma weapons. Laser weapons. _New_ ones. Nothing close to the nail boards and shotguns he expected. 

Two centuries of living left Desmond with a wealth of skepticism. Arsenals like this didn’t appear out of thin air. Someone, somewhere, had _supplied_ them, but why two-bit slavers needed this kind of firepower, Desmond couldn’t fathom. Run-of-the-mill hollow point worked just fine against half-naked fuckwits. It just didn't make sense.

Nevermind Carol’s passing mention of that smoothskin, and the wasteland upset they'd thrown into full gear. He _knew_ what they were capable of. He'd never say it out loud, but his own victory hinged on them more than he ever anticipated. Admittedly, he'd underestimated the kid at first. But he refused to chalk the slavers' paranoia up to the shadow cast by one wasteland bumpkin, no matter how blown out of proportion their reputation was. The prospect was too infuriating to be true. 

Staring into the thick ozone haze that blanketed the battlefield, he knew only one fact for certain. The slavers at Paradise Falls had their work cut out for them. What their guests lacked in common sense, they made up for in enthusiasm. Volley after volley of plasma fire burned raiders to ash. And yet, propelled by some unseen force, they lunged forward each time without fail. Desmond hesitated to call it bravery. For raiders, carnage was little more than a product of self-interest. 

He leaned out of cover, just enough to hazard another glance through his scope. At long last, he zeroed in on the bullwhip of idiocy driving the horde forward. _She_ \- though he could hardly be sure - was a muscular woman with patchy green hair and a pockmarked face. Unremarkable, were it not for her asinine habit of throwing landmines like frisbees. Desmond smirked. Her army was safer standing behind her, and they all knew it. She'd already blown a limb or two off her own soldiers, and was either too callous or too stupid to notice. 

Desmond traced her with his scope. The tide of battle had long since turned against the invading force, if it ever favored them in the first place. Their leader didn’t falter - rather, she’d started frothing at the mouth. Defeat seemed too much for her tiny brain to handle. As comrade after comrade piled up against the barricades, she threw herself into the line of fire with an increasing lust for death. It was a vain effort. When the last volley struck and the smoke cleared, she was the only raider left standing. Whether out of twisted luck or intent on the slavers’ part, Desmond couldn’t tell. 

Slavers picked their way towards her. Every now and then, they paused, casually administering a boot heel or a bullet to any raider that twitched. Their sweep prompted a string of obscenities from the lone survivor. Blood smeared and delirious with rage, she hurled two landmines in their path, then bolted for the edge of the battlefield. She got an admirable lead on them before tripping on a corpse. Her chin slammed into the dirt. 

She wasn't going to make it out alive, that much was certain. Desmond chewed his tongue. Whether she lived or died didn't _really_ matter. He hadn't planned on intervening. But if she had some motivation for waging war, something more than anarchistic fetish, then maybe she was worth the trickle of information he could wring out of her. Maybe she was worth rescuing.

This was a conundrum. One he needed to sort out, fast. The slavers closed in, and the raider scrambled backwards. From the shredded pack that hung from her shoulder, she pulled a landmine, mashed the button in the center, and clutched it to her chest. It lit up in her arms with a series of shrill beeps. The slavers leapt back, and Desmond cursed under his breath. No more time to weigh his options. He trained his barrel on them. Three easy shots to the head, and they all dropped. The raider flinched, scrambled to her feet, and hurled the landmine across the battlefield with seconds to spare. The detonation belched dust into the air. 

Desmond squinted into his scope. He’d lost visual, and for a moment, he could do nothing but wait. His guts twisted. There was a fine line between impulse and instinct. Instinct was prudent - it told him to stay put, to stay out of it, to remain a fly on the wall. He didn't listen. The resulting shame brought old memories to the surface. Desmond stood, rolled his shoulders, and tried to shake his discomfort off. He’d reckoned with this before, as a rookie agent, watching a cornered Chinese operative swallow a cyanide pill. He’d lost a lead back then. An important one. That failure stuck with him, made him loath self-sacrifice with a passion. He found it trite, found it wasteful. And more than anything, he found it inconvenient. 

Desmond shuddered, then set his jaw. Perhaps stepping in like this was the closest he'd ever get to sentimentality, but that was beside the point. Impulse or not, rescuing a raider was justifiable. He had questions, ones her shredded corpse couldn't answer.

The dust hadn’t settled, but he couldn't bear to wait any longer. His dog still paced back and forth behind him, snarling, leaving a snail trail of drool in the dirt. Desmond snapped his fingers. At the sound, the animal looked his way and bristled. Desmond pointed ahead.

“Go on,” he ordered. “Go.”

It bolted around cover and disappeared into the haze. Desmond trailed behind at a more cautious pace. He didn’t need to micromanage. After all, violence wasn’t complicated, and judging by the banshee shriek that pierced through the cloud ahead, his companion had understood him perfectly. 

Desmond hung back at what he assumed was a safe distance. Nevertheless, a sizable rock, as big as his fist, whizzed past and thudded into the dirt behind him. Then another, further from the mark. He inched closer. He could see the raider, now, thrashing in the dirt, his dog latched onto her forearm. She reached for a third rock, and this time, she smashed it upside the dog's head.

“Fuck, _fuck!_ Fuck off, you stinking mutt!”

Desmond cleared his throat. When she didn't look up, he circled behind her and pressed the barrel of his rifle against her head.

“Is this how you say thank you?” he said. “Throwing boulders at me and brutalizing my dog?”

The raider growled, squirming in place.

 _“Your dog’s the one doing the brutalizing!”_ she said. “Call it off! _Call it off!_ Get the fucking thing off me!”

“You'll have to convince me.”

She wrenched one arm back and grasped at her pack, slipping another landmine from under the flap. 

“Or I can pick up where I left off,” she snarled.

He kicked her, knocking her face into the dirt. The dog scrambled back and snapped at Desmond’s shoe, where he’d planted it between her shoulder blades. She was helpless, and the barrel of his gun made sure she stayed that way, grinding against the base of her skull. 

“Bad idea, smoothskin,” he said flatly.

He reached down and ripped the pack from her shoulder. Merely lifting it sent him stumbling to one side. It felt like a sack of bricks. He grit his teeth, and with more effort than he’d care to admit, he tossed it. The bag landed a few feet away, barely out of arm’s reach. Too close for comfort. Raiders and explosives didn't mix, not even on a good day.

Fortunately, his dog did a half-decent job of occupying her. It ripped gleefully at what was - judging by the disproportionate size of her bicep - her throwing arm. The dog had every intent of separating it from her body. 

“Mmmph!” The raider thrashed under his foot. She alternated between howling and choking on mouthfuls of dirt. “Mm-Off. Phh. _Get it off!”_

Desmond paused, savoring the moment, then gave a sharp whistle. The dog looked at him, still latched onto its quarry, bolting off only when Desmond had chucked aside a scrap of dried meat he’d stowed in his pocket.

He adjusted his grip on his rifle and removed his foot from her spine. The raider whirled, looked up, and scrambled back, wrinkling her nose at the sight of him. 

“Ah. _God,”_ she choked. “Shuffler. I knew it. You smell worse than the dog.”

“Brilliant choice of words for someone in your position.”

“Someone in my _position?_ So who does that make you, hotshot? Alastair fucking Tenpenny?”

Desmond sniffed.

“Someone who saved your life,” he said. “Twice now, actually. You’re fucking welcome.” 

“I didn’t ask you to do that, shitbird.”

“My mistake. Under all that bravado, I figured you cared about living.”

“I’d rather die than get rescued by a corpse. I’m a _raider,_ not some pussy-ass damsel in distress.”

She turned her head and bared her teeth, glaring over the battlefield with primal hatred plain on her face. Dead raiders littered the ground, not reaching even a hundred meters in front of the slaver’s stronghold.

“Fair enough,” Desmond said at last.

The raider snapped back to attention and narrowed her eyes. Desmond took a step back and whistled. The dog circled back around. 

“Uh. Excuse me? What the fuck are you doing?”

“Finishing the job. Or is this not how you pictured going out?”

She didn’t answer, but he didn’t need her to. That much was clear - she wanted a noble death, and she wanted it to be quick. A junkyard dog was neither. She was staring at him now, her lip curled, refusing to cower. Predictable. Raiders had an odd sort of pride that made extracting pleas for mercy tedious. Fortunately, Desmond was more versed in their tribalistic bullshit than he’d care to admit. Pride was one thing, but raiders were also fickle, self-indulgent, and far from principled. She’d break eventually. 

“You want something from me,” she spat, shrinking back slightly as the dog slunk closer. “Don’t you? Or are you just a sick fuck with a gross hobby? You like watching people get shredded?” 

Desmond threw another scrap, and the dog went tumbling after it.

“Guilty on both counts,” he said. “But yes, I want something from you. I don’t typically waste bullets saving raiders from oblivion.”

“So what is it? _Thank you?_ Is that what you wanted to hear? You want me to grovel?”

“Not quite, but you’re getting there.”

“Well if you want a blowie, then I’ll go for the mauling instead.”

“I prefer good conversation. Call me old-fashioned.”

She rubbed her arm, covered in bloody pits from the dog’s teeth, and hissed. She eyed the animal, then looked back at Desmond.

 _“Talk,_ then. Get on with it.”

Desmond kept his gun trained on her.

“I won’t beat around the bush,” he said. “I’m looking for someone. I wanted answers from _slavers,_ but your detestable little mongol horde declared open season. I'm guessing you put them in a less than hospitable mood.”

“Well, you were the one who decided to cap three of them instead of me.”

Desmond bristled, then bit his tongue. He'd put this to rest already. Curiosity was a good enough reason for saving her, but it was a reason that invited scrutiny, and it wasn't one she needed to hear.

“You were the one who activated a land mine,” he said flatly. “And I wasn’t confident in the other party’s reflexes.”

“That’s a fancy way of saying you picked favorites. So what makes you think I have answers for you?”

“Because you look to be the neanderthal in charge. So explain. Why all the commotion?”

“Shit’s falling apart.”

Desmond rolled his eyes. At least she got to the point. One of the merits of a limited vocabulary.

“I can see that,” he said. “Especially for you, it seems. Why?”

“Pittsburgh was the glue holding everything together.”

“And what happened in Pittsburgh?”

“What, do you live under a rock? Don’t you listen to the radio? A fucking empire got blasted from the bottom up. That piece of shit vault dweller knee-capped the whole slave operation. The Pitt’s toast. Rumor has it they’re gonna sweep our neck of the wasteland next. It’s every chem-head for themselves out here.”

Desmond scowled. For a split second, he felt the hot flush of anger that accompanied a rare miscalculation. He swallowed, grit his teeth, and shoved it down. So it really was that simple. He couldn’t take two steps out here without tripping over another piece of that smoothskin’s handiwork. 

“So what’s this, then?” He gestured at the bodies littered in front of the mall. “Just part of the free-for-all? Or is this just what you simpletons do for exercise?”

“What’s it to _you?”_

The dog finished with its scrap of meat. It turned and looked at Desmond, expecting another. For a moment, it could have passed as a decent excuse for a pet, if not for it’s fine-tuned instinct for violence. Desmond nudged his sniper rifle at the raider, and the dog snarled, stalking back in her direction. 

“Alright. _Alright,”_ she said, scrambling back. “I thought this was a _conversation,_ not a fucking interrogation.”

“I misspoke.”

The raider sighed, rubbing her face with two dirt-smeared hands. 

“Fine. I had a bright idea, okay? Hit every slave caravan we could. Salvage, hoard, and bide our time. I was shooting for the big leagues. We'd take over their operation when the shit really hit the fan. People listened to me.” 

“Can’t imagine why.”

Without taking his eyes off of her, he tossed another scrap, and the dog scrambled after it. The raider sighed, notably deflated. 

“Look,” she began. 

She pinched the bridge of her nose and grimaced. It was a humanizing gesture, but Desmond knew better than to give it any weight.

“You caught me on a bad day, okay?” she said. “I just lost a lot of people. Friends. But believe it or not, I don’t make a habit of letting fucksticks like you push me around. And when you kill enough fucksticks, people respect you. Then you gotta kill more. Keep up appearances. It’s hard work.”

She drew her knees up to her chest, mashed a fist repeatedly into her forehead, and scowled. A purple welt formed between her eyebrows where her knuckles ground into the bone. She struck once, twice, three times. She wasn’t stopping. Desmond felt another insult crawling up his tongue, but bit it back. Pulling punches was the closest he’d ever get to expressing genuine pity, and it was more out of concern for her grip on reality than anything else.

“God damn it,” she choked. She reached up, tugged on her hair, and ripped out two generous chunks with her fists. “Took me years to scrape them all together, and now they’re _dead._ Every last one of them. Stupid, good-for-nothing sons of bitches.”

She punctuated her words with one last fist to the forehead. Desmond sighed. 

“Well that’s a bit myopic, don’t you think?” he said. “They were your army. You're the commander. It’s not _their_ fault you made a shit call.”

She looked up, bloodshot eyes flashing, back on the offensive. Desmond never bothered with platitudes. When it came to snapping someone out of a funk, harsh truths worked better. Still, he fought the urge to step back.

“What the fuck do _you_ know about war?” she spat. “You’re a fucking nobody.”

She scrambled to her feet. Desmond stayed put, but he pointed his rifle at her all the same. 

“I’m a nobody who’s got two centuries on you, and is very much still the one asking questions. Sit. _Down.”_

She huffed at him, then dropped back into the dirt, elbows propped on her knees, trembling with rage. 

“So ask. And quit rubbing it in.”

“I’m not. I’m assessing the situation. And it looks like you had bad intelligence.”

“Calling me stupid is pretty juvenile for a decrepit fart like you.”

“I’m talking about _intel,_ not brainpower. Though you're painfully short on that, no doubt. My point is, you didn’t know what you were getting into. Am I wrong?” 

“No...” She mashed her palms into her eye sockets and ground them in. Her voice took on an edge, and her fists clenched and unclenched while she talked. “No, you're right, dammit. Did you see their fucking kit? They depended on the Pitt. They were supposed to be _hurting._ But I should’ve seen this coming. Something else is propping them up. They're doing a shitload of jobs, the kind people talk about.”

“And what kind is that?”

She looked up and narrowed her eyes. Desmond tensed, waiting for her to speak. There were gears in that dented head of hers, and he saw them turning.

“Kids,” she breathed. “They keep going after kids. I just thought they were desperate. Didn’t need as much firepower to wrangle the little tykes. But these assholes were armed to the teeth. Someone must be buying bulk, paying top dollar. Some sicko with a lot of caps. Someone expecting _blowback._ It doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

Desmond paced to the side, then back again, still pinning her with his eyes.

“You're not too far off,” he said quietly. 

The words slipped out of his mouth before he thought the better of it. Months spent alone gave him a nasty habit of ruminating out loud. Too late to take it back. She scrambled to her feet again, every stringy muscle in her body pulled tight.

“Hold up,” she snapped. “Wait a fucking minute. _What did you just say?”_

She stared him down, and Desmond tightened his grip on his gun. Judging by the way her chest heaved, she’d taken the events of the past hour very personally. Every exhale sent flecks of spittle flying from her clenched teeth.

“You know who’s behind this,” she said.

“I have an inkling.”

_“What’s that supposed to mean?”_

“It means the rest isn’t your concern, and you should stay out of my way. And stop-” He jabbed her torso with the barrel of his rifle. “-moving closer.”

She staggered back, then squared up with him again. 

“You said you were looking for someone. Is that who you-”

_“I don’t like repeating myself.”_

“Oh, you motherfucker,” she growled. She shoved past his weapon, jabbed a finger into his chest, and bared her teeth at him, so close he could smell the rank hint of jet on her breath. “Come _on._ Cut the act. I get it, it’s fun to play pretend out here when you’re all by your lonesome. But news flash - you’re no Dick Tracy, and it doesn’t make one lick of difference to you what I know. But it matters to _me,_ because me and mine got our shit pushed in because of whoever you’re looking for.”

Desmond swung his rifle over his shoulder. Both hands free, he reached out, grabbed her wrist and twisted. Her whole body spun with it, and he hooked his other arm around her neck, pinning her against him in a submission hold.

“Ah. _Fuck._ What the hell are you-”

She clawed at him with her free hand, to no avail. The harder she scrabbled, the tighter he sinched his chokehold. Desmond preferred dogs over people for a reason. The rules of the game were simpler. Dominance, discipline, reward. Sometimes, however, that approach sufficed for creatures on two legs. 

“I’m not sure what gave you the impression that I tolerate disrespect,” he said. _“Word choice._ Consider it, carefully. And do _not-”_ He twisted her arm again, eliciting a strangled yelp. “-touch me.”

She drew a few short gasps, then went limp in his grasp.

“Look. I...” She coughed, struggling to choke out a sentence from under his forearm. “I have a... _proposition_ for you.” 

“So you _do_ know some big words,” he said dryly. He released her neck a fraction of a millimeter, barely enough to let her breathe. “I’m listening.”

“I'm going to leave my mark on this piece of shit world.” She sputtered, her voice hoarse. “I want to _be_ somebody. And I almost had it.” She grit her teeth, staring at the battlefield with a deranged, far-away look. “A fucking kingdom.” 

The veins around her temples bulged. She'd started to go purple.

“I don’t like it when people steal from me,” she said. “Whoever you're after stole everything. And if I can't have _my_ piece of the wasteland, I'll burn the whole fucking thing down. _I want in.”_

She shut her mouth, waiting. She trembled with a mounting intensity, and Desmond wasn't fool enough to mistake it for fear. He tightened his grip on her wrist.

“I already have one stray nipping at my heels, and that one knows how to listen at least _half_ the time. I doubt you can do better. No one taught you to keep your hands to yourself.”

“You need my help,” she choked. “You’re in over your head.”

Desmond laughed. 

“Not fucking hardly.”

He released her arm and kicked her forward into the dirt. Rifle at the ready, he stepped around her with a wide berth. He wasn’t interested in collaboration. He was interested in obedience, and she clearly wasn’t bred for it.

“Wait, damn it.” She scrambled up onto her hands and knees. “Where do you think you’re going?”

 _“In,”_ he said. “I changed my mind. I have burning questions, and they’re the kind that require a... _wider_ vocabulary to answer.”

She staggered up behind him, walking in stride, so close that her shoulder bumped against his. Desmond’s dog bounded up, snarling at her, waiting for his cue to intervene. 

“You sure about that?” she jeered. “You want to go in there alone, in your little pinstripe suit, and take on slavers with _that_ pathetic kit? You’ve got a sniper rifle. That’s it. Be my guest, but you’re never going to make it past the front door. Their dick is bigger than yours.”

Desmond stopped in his tracks, looked her dead in the face, and pointed his rifle between her eyes. She leapt back and threw her palms in the air.

“Whoa,” she said. “Fucking chill. Not touching. Okay? So, what? You’re listening to me now? If you’d just-”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “I hear something.”

“What?”

“Vertibird.”

They had a characteristic hum, one he’d developed an ear for. Desmond shuddered. That sound came with a litany of scrapes with death, both before and after the Great War. Remnant factions from the Brotherhood to the Enclave meant trouble, _real_ trouble. The kind Desmond lusted after but was so tragically under-equipped to deal with alone.

A black speck in the sky grew larger by the second, headed straight for them. Whether it passed them by remained to be seen, but Desmond hadn't survived two centuries by being optimistic. He squinted at the sky, then back at the raider, reassessing her worth. She wasn’t capable of loyalty, that much was certain. He’d settle for disposable. She’d make an excellent magnet for return fire. 

“I never did get your name,” he said, all too politely. 

The raider slapped the dust off her armor. It didn’t change much.

“Name’s Chuck.”

“I hope your parents weren’t responsible for that.”

She spit on the ground.

“I earned it, dillweed. Got a good throwing arm.”

Desmond laughed derisively.

“I’m sure you do.”

Chuck flipped him the bird, and turned on her heel to retrieve her pack.

“You like taking a frag mine to the face?” she called. “Cause all the other dead fucks who cracked jokes didn't seem to.”

He trained his rifle on her. When she turned, pack slung over her shoulder, he curled his finger tight around the trigger. 

“Let me make this abundantly clear,” he said. “You are _not_ the one in charge. Your army’s dead, and the chain of command’s flipped. Quite the sea-change, I know, and it’ll take some getting used to. I’m giving you three seconds. _Acclimate.”_

_“I don’t have to do a goddamn-”_

“Time’s up,” he said. 

Chuck’s mouth snapped shut, which was promising. The dirty looks wouldn’t do in the long run, but her living beyond the next few minutes was a solid hypothetical.

“Here’s how it works,” he continued. He spoke slowly, giving it time to sink in. “You kill when I tell you, and you _heel_ when I tell you. You don’t get in my way. If you behave, I’ll make it worth your while. _If._ I don’t reward mediocrity. And I certainly don’t reward lip.” 

She was silent for a while, weighing the arrangement as the vertibird’s engine grew louder. Finally, she crossed her arms and scowled.

“Fine. But I’m not taking a fucking bullet for you, zombie.”

Desmond sighed. A tacit agreement at best, but it’d have to do. He lowered his rifle, but he didn’t release the trigger. Chuck picked at her yellow teeth and raised an eyebrow at him.

“So now that we’re best friends, you wanna have a quick pow-wow? Who the fuck are you hunting, exactly? Is it just one person?”

“Gearing up for a fight doesn’t put me in a sharing mood.”

“Whatever. You’re letting me in on this, so I want the scoop, damn it.”

“Fine. Yes. It’s one person, and whoever he’s convinced to do his dirty work. He’s the type that fosters... unquestioning authority.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means be careful, shut up, and pay attention, because there’s a military craft landing a hundred yards to your left.”

The vertibird was practically on top of them now, the roar of propellers nearly too loud to shout over. The passing downdraft kicked up a stinging gust of pebbles and dirt. Desmond grimaced, grabbed Chuck by the arm, and threw her forward. She fell to her knees behind the meager front half of a wrecked car. It was their only cover, and it’d have to do. 

Chuck cursed and picked some gravel out of her bare knees. Desmond ignored her and ducked down, his dog sticking close behind. The vertibird extended its landing gear. He trained his scope past it and centered his crosshairs on the mall, where a trickle of slavers emerged, fully flanked by guards. They had a pair of young children in tow. One boy, one girl. On either side of the craft stood officers with starched collars, their faces pinched as if they smelled something foul.

“Fucking Enclave,” Chuck growled. “Are you serious? What the hell are they doing here?”

Sure enough, everything, from the power armor to the uniforms to the craft itself, sported that all-too-familiar star spangled crest. The sight of it made Desmond taste bile. 

“So what’s the plan, asshole?” Chuck muttered. “I'm waiting for your signal. That's what you want, isn't it? We playing hero today?”

“No. We wait. They’re taking those brats somewhere, and I want to find out where.”

“Whatever. You're the boss, I guess. Last minute rescues easier to stroke your cock to?”

Desmond pulled away from the scope and glared at her.

“What, you think I'm a bleeding fucking heart?” he snapped. “What makes you think I’m the child-rescuing type?”

“Are you serious?” Chuck laughed. “You saved the girl. You're hunting slavers. And you were about to walk in there alone like you have some crazy fucking death wish. If there was a factory for righteous dumbasses, you’d be fresh off the assembly line.”

Desmond kept his mouth shut and put his eye to the scope once more, as much a show of focus as it was an effort to keep from strangling her. A pair of soldiers in power armor stepped out of the vertibird, meeting the slavers halfway. The two parties stood for a while, talking, the pair of young children trembling between them. 

“Aw, lookit that,” Chuck sneered. “If only there was someone watching, someone with a sniper rifle and a heart of gold. _Come on._ I hate waiting. I thought we were killing slavers, asshole.”

Desmond growled.

“You smashed your fist into your head one too many times if you think you're dealing with a hero.”

“So what do you call this cute little crusade you’re on?”

“Necessary. What do you call those bite marks on your arm?”

 _“Compensating.”_ She jabbed a finger at him. “You’re playing the tough guy, alright? There’s a softie in there somewhere. I had an army, fucko. I got an eye for sissies like you. And I’ve had enough pencil-dicked nobodies flex on me to know it when I see it.”

“Better get your vision checked, then.”

“Look. You’re hunting some child-snatching boogeyman, and there’s got to be a reason. If it’s not the greater good - or _whatever_ you jerk it to at night - then what is it? Revenge?”

“Self defense.”

“Huh?”

“It’s _self defense._ I like living, and if I want to continue doing that in peace, then this son of a bitch has to die.”

She leaned back.

“Okaaay. But we’re _not_ killing whoever’s in that vertibird?”

“You’re catching on quick.”

“Okay. Listen, you motherfucker, I didn’t tag along to sit on my ass and-”

Desmond reached out, eye still glued to the scope, and smacked her upside the head.

“Ow! What the fuck are you-”

He grabbed her by the hair and twisted her head in the direction of the vertibird.

“Shut up, look, and pay attention,” he snapped. “Something’s happening.”

There was a small commotion down by the vertibird. The girl, clad in a ratty pink dress, darted through the legs of a soldier in power armor. Another snatched her up by the ankle and lifted into the air. Her companion met a similar fate, tossed under a soldier’s arm, screaming and kicking with futility. 

Desmond heard the rocket, first, before it hit. There wasn’t any time to gauge where it came from. It screamed past, and the vertibird burst into flames. The shockwave knocked slavers and soldiers to the ground. The kids scrambled to their feet and bolted, both of them managing to clear the wreckage before the fuel tank’s secondary explosion sent a massive pillar of fire into the sky. 

“Holy fuck,” Chuck breathed. She slowly rose to her feet, squinting in disbelief. “Someone beat you to the punch.”

Desmond shot upright, rifle in hand.

“Kill everyone you can,” he ordered. “And get me those kids. Alive.”

He stepped around the car, trained his rifle on a slaver, and shot her through the head. She fell just feet from the little boy she was chasing, seconds before Desmond lost visual to a billowing cloud of smoke. Desmond ran into the fray, and Chuck followed close behind. A wave of heat hit them at the blast site.

“Why the change of tune?” she chided. “Guilty conscience?”

“I take an opportunity when I see it.”

Chuck grinned, the glow from the crash site turning her expression of childlike glee all the more sinister. Desmond slowed as they reached the epicenter of the chaos. Strewn about were power armor plates and limbs, layered here and there on top of countless long-dead raiders. The vertibird, and the area around it, was obscured in flame and thick black smoke. 

There was movement, the glow of plasma rifles and tesla coils, growing brighter the closer they crept to the edge of the wreckage. A shape lurched towards them, rifle in hand, slowly taking shape through the smoke. It was was a slaver, a thick spear of shrapnel lodged in his torso, sputtering blood but very much alive. 

“Mother fucker,” Chuck breathed. She shoved Desmond back and stalked ahead. “Mine. This one’s mine.”

Desmond never was one for chivalry, but he hung back. She was doing her part, just as he’d hoped. Chuck pinned the slaver, her knees on his chest. She ripped the chunk of shrapnel from his chest and bludgeoned him over the head with it, a feverish grin on her face widening with every strike. She made quick work of it. Pushing further into the fray, she moved to the next opponent, and the next, tackling them down and taking out her rage with blunt force trauma. Land mines were one thing, but she was a master of close combat. She made use of shrapnel, of rocks, of anything she could get her hands on. To Desmond’s delight, that included the disembodied limbs of her own dead soldiers. 

She had an odd effect on her opponents, and he made use of it. Watching that kind of savagery had a tendency to make enemies hesitate. Hesitation meant an opening to line up shot after shot. He trained his rifle through the smoke. With her as his vanguard, he stood back, taking potshots at any contenders she couldn’t maim on her own. 

He heard it again. Another rocket, screaming through the air. This time, it hit the mall itself, blocking off the gauntlet of barricades and barbed wire and sealing the entryway. Desmond watched the explosion billow skyward, and steeled himself. It meant no more reinforcements, no more slavers. It also meant someone, somewhere was giving them covering fire.

Gradually, both the mayhem and the raging fire in the wreckage burned down. Desmond picked his way across the rubble. His dog greeted him, muzzle caked in gore, then bounded around the wrecked vertibird. Chuck stood at the crash site, panting, a bloody cleaver of shredded aluminum in her hand. She beckoned to him. 

“You better find this idiot,” she sputtered, choking on the smoke. “Before they shoot another rocket right up our fucking asses.”

“I’m planning on it, but you need to take care of something first.”

“Way ahead of you.”

She pointed to her left. Against a pile of dislodged earth and a few mangled corpses sat the two children, shivering, looking at Desmond like they’d seen a ghost. 

“So you _can_ listen,” Desmond said. “Color me impressed.”

“Kiddos and I had a heart to heart,” Chuck said. She leaned down, cleaver in hand. “You’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Are you?”

They both shuddered, then shook their heads in unison. Desmond turned away, satisfied.

“Well, make sure to keep the brats in check. They better still be here when the shock wears off. In the meantime, I have another problem to deal with.”

Desmond turned his back and whistled. The dog bolted ahead of him, past the edge of the battlefield and up the hill beside the mall. He followed it. At the outskirts, the smoke cleared, patches of blue sky showing through. The roar of the burning wreckage quieted, and not far ahead came a sound Desmond didn’t expect.

“Hey!’ A child’s voice whined, high pitched and nasal. “Stupid dog! G-Go away! Don’t eat my chips! Come on... Quit it...”

Beneath a sunbleached billboard and a small pile of rocks, a rocket launcher jutted out of the ground leaching a trail of smoke. Next to it sat a young girl, no older than eleven or twelve, her blonde hair and pink headband covered in soot. An obnoxious scowl twisted on her face. She didn’t notice Desmond. She was preoccupied with his dog, which had planted its muzzle in a bag of potato crisps, absolutely disinterested in the live prey squatting not two feet from it’s face. 

Desmond cleared his throat, and the girl startled. She looked up at him, and went white as a sheet. 

“Ah... Z... _Z-Zombie!_ Stay back!”

She scrambled towards the rocket launcher. Desmond closed the distance between them in two swift strides and picked her up by the back of her dress. 

“What are you doing?!” She shrieked. “I’ll fucking kill you! Let me go, or I’ll-”

She grasped for the weapon, and Desmond tossed her to the ground, planting his foot on her chest with little effort. 

“You shoot that thing at point blank range and we’re both dead. You’re a decent shot, I’ll give you that. But you have the critical thinking skills of a tadpole.”

“Yeah? Well you’re a fucking jerk! And so’s your dog!”

“Is that so? Seems like you were keen on rescuing your friends, and I did most of the cleaning up for you, so I think I deserve a bit more credit than that.”

The girl writhed under his shoe, clawing at his ankle to no avail.

“Whatever, asshole! Let... Let me go!”

She choked a little as he pushed down, just enough to subdue her.

“You don’t seem to understand the situation, at present,” he said. “I have a... _colleague_ over there, minding your friends, who doesn't have a fucking clue what she's doing. I don't want the kiddos dead, obviously... But your pals try to wiggle away from her in the next few minutes and I can guarantee that imbecile will do something reckless. I'm sure you didn't go through all this trouble to save two corpses, so you're coming with me.”

“Three.”

“What?”

 _“Three!_ They had _three_ of my friends!”

“Well you shot the mall with a missile, so I guess you could call that collateral damage.”

The girl’s face twisted up, fat tears spilling over her cheeks. 

“Screw you! You don’t know anything!”

Desmond lifted his foot from her torso, stepped back, and stooped down to heft the missile launcher over his shoulder. How this runt managed to carry it was beyond him. The girl sat up, still splayed in the dirt, and started bawling.

“Stop whining, and get your ass up,” Desmond growled. “My hands are full. So you’re going to walk like a big girl, say hello to your friends, and we’re all going to have a nice chat. And don’t even think about running. My dog has a prey drive on a hair trigger.”

Whatever fight she had left in her was gone. He nudged her with his foot, and she staggered to her feet. Sputtering and whimpering, fists mashed into her eyes, she walked ahead.

_“Princess!”_

They didn't get far before two kids barreled through the smoke. Chuck careened after them, then staggered to a halt, looking at Desmond in disbelief.

“You're kidding,” she said, panting. “Tell me you left an adult corpse back there somewhere.”

Desmond scowled.

“Unfortunately, no.”

The kids tumbled past, oblivious, and tackled the girl beside him to the ground. He grimaced as it dawned on him - an adult who knew better had named the snot-nosed girl in his custody. Either that, or the universe had a dry sense of humor. Princess comforted her friends, all the while glaring at Desmond like she was willing him to drop dead. He returned the gesture twofold, then cleared his throat. 

“Alright,” he barked. “Tearful reunion’s over. Listen up.”

The two rescues turned, still clutching each other, and stared at him wide-eyed. 

“Your friend here created a lot of convenient mayhem,” he continued. “But you’re very fucking lucky we happened to be here to get you out of it alive. This rescue isn't free, I'm afraid. You need to tell me everything you know about the people who wanted to buy you.” 

They froze, stock still, and said nothing. 

“What's the problem? You runts never seen a ghoul before?”

“You look like _him,”_ the boy choked.

“Like who?”

“The other zombie mungo. The one... The one that took Squirrel.”

Princess turned to her friend in disbelief.

 _“What?_ Sammy, what are you saying?”

The boy crumpled, then drew in a shaky breath.

“I...” he stammered “I don’t... ”

Desmond stepped forward, and the boy scrambled back. Princess moved to stand between them, but Desmond grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her aside.

“Sammy, was it?” he said. “Spit it out, _now._ What did you see?”

“There.... There were vertibirds outside. Like today. Lots of people with power armor and guns. And this guy... He looked like you. He gave them lots of cases of... _Stuff._ More guns, I think. And money.”

“In exchange for your friend.”

“They... They took a bunch of kids that time. But they didn’t take us. He looked at Squirrel. Said he was exactly what he wanted. I... I don't know what he meant by that. It... Sounded _bad.”_

Princess struggled against Desmond again. He adjusted his grip and gave her head another yank.

“Sammy,” she whimpered. “Where is he? Sammy... Where's Squirrel?”

“They took him. And they... I don't know. It’s... It’s been forever.”

The other little girl, considerably less troublesome than Princess, spoke up. 

“It’s... It’s been almost three months, Sammy.”

“I know, Penny. Like I said. Forever.”

Desmond looked at Penny, who shrank back the second he laid eyes on her.

“You... You can help us, right?” she squeaked. “G-Get him back?”

“Not a chance.”

Princess thrashed in his grip again. This time, he let her go, sending her stumbling backwards with one last jerk of his hand.

 _“Why not?”_ she sputtered. 

Desmond didn't reply. Princess wrinkled her nose, then stalked up to him, eyes narrowed and shuddering with loathing.

“What the hell is your _problem?”_ she spat. “You’re the worst mungo I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a lot of shitty mungos.”

Desmond sniffed. 

“Sorry to say it, but your friend’s not your friend anymore.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means he doesn’t know you, and he’s fucked in the head. The ghoul that took him wiped his memories. Wiped his personality. He’s a vegetable now, no doubt. Sorry.”

“Not Squirrel,” Princess said gravely. “He's the smartest person I know. It's not possible. You're a liar. A dirty, rotten _liar.”_

“Doesn’t matter if he was Nikola fucking Tesla,” Desmond said. “Brainwashing doesn’t work like that.”

Princess stared him down. His statement didn't seem to register. 

“How about this,” he said flatly. “Your friend’s dead. That easier to stomach?”

Princess’ expression twisted. Desmond gestured to the lot of them.

“Listen. I’ll do you all a favor and kill the one who did it. You’re welcome.”

Princess kicked dirt onto his shoe and balled up her fists.

 _“That’s my friend they took, you asshole!”_

Desmond drew in a slow breath and stepped back.

“You need to learn some manners,” he said gravely. “Sometimes life isn’t fucking fair. And sometimes, a complete stranger saves your friends from a life of slavery. And when that happens... You say _thank you.”_

Princess stooped down, picked up a rock and flung it at the dog. Desmond trained his gun on her in an instant. Overkill, clearly, but it was hardwired instinct. Princess didn’t flinch. She stooped down again, then threw a rock at Desmond’s head. Luckily for her, she missed.

Desmond took a step forward, and the children drew back. He trained his barrel at the lot of them. As he’d hoped, it sent her friends scurrying, and Princess followed close behind. Less work than a verbal warning. More effective, to boot. They were out of sight in no time.

He turned back to Chuck. She stared at him, eyes wide and grinning, in what appeared to be a mock show of surprise.

“Man,” she said. “You really _are_ a stone cold bastard, aren't you?”

Desmond glared at her.

“Is it fun pointing out the obvious?”

“Maybe. So what’s the deal? I mean really, what’s the fucking deal? You’re chasing some guy who brainwashes kids... And you’re telling me you’re _not_ some kind of wasteland do-gooder? Are you kidding me?”

“It’s only convenient that every person I’ve set out to kill has been a megalomaniac, an evil genius, or both.”

Chuck laughed, then shook her head in disbelief. Desmond jabbed a finger at her. 

“You think I’m bastard now,” he said. “Then wait till I face this son of a bitch head on. I don’t shed tears for collateral damage. That means _you.”_

“Oooh,” Chuck cooed. She looked him in the face, and shuddered. “Scary.”

Desmond scowled as she stepped closer. He busied himself with reloading his rifle.

“Look, you obviously think you're hot shit,” she said. “So explain something to me. Last I checked, the Enclave was fucking massive. And you’re just hunting one guy? It’s not that _John Henry Eden_ fuck, is it?”

“What does it matter?”

“I want to know how fucked we are.”

Desmond ignored her, and in his silence, he caught the first faint hum of another engine. He looked up. Another speck appeared on the horizon, growing larger by the second.

“Judging by that sound?” he said. “Very, unless you get ready for another fight and stop bothering me for details.”

Chuck spit on the ground and scowled.

“Another vertibird? Christ.”

“They lost a craft. Of course they’d send a retrieving party.”

“Great. So what do we do? Cross our fingers and hope another snot-nosed kid takes out the garbage for us?”

“No, you’re going to shoot them down. Get the rocket launcher.”

“You’re lucky I enjoy shit like this. Or you might have to say please.”

She picked up the rocket launcher from where it sat, cast aside, propped against a rock. She’d lifted it against her shoulder when Desmond heard another sound, barely audible above the now-deafening roar of the vertibird. The characteristic whine of gatling laser warming up.

“Change of plans,” he said. “Get down.”

_“What?”_

“They’re not looking for survivors. They’re making sure there aren’t any. I said _get down.”_

Chuck broadened her stance to heft the rocket launcher higher. She had a glint in her eye, a feral twinkle of delight, and a feverish grin slapped across her face. 

“Fuck that,” she shouted. “I’ll beat them to it.”

 _“No, you won’t,”_ Desmond bellowed. He didn’t have time to mask the tinge of desperation in his voice. “You want to put a smoke signal right where we’re standing, you fucking imbecile, then...”

Chuck wasn’t listening. This was life or death, and she was _laughing,_ cackling to herself like a mental patient. Desmond should've known better. She wasn't built for obedience. She was self-serving, self-indulging, and absolutely fucking unhinged.

She gripped the rocket launcher and clenched the trigger, and the burst of smoke and flash of yellow fire from the tip of the weapon laid her mistake bare. 

Her rocket went wide. Utterly unharmed, the vertibird strafed to the left. The gatling laser on it’s nose let out another squeal and whirled in its socket, letting loose a spray of red fire that ripped across the battlefield. It hurtled towards them. Desmond ducked. 

He felt a searing flash of pain. Then, he didn’t feel much of anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! This was my first experiment at posting a work chapter by chapter rather than dumping the whole thing at once. Unfortunately, life got in the way more than I anticipated. Thanks for bearing with me while I get the rest up slowly. Based off my outline, I've got about two or three more chapters to wrap this up. 
> 
> In the meantime, if you enjoyed this little bit of faffery I'd love to know what you think. Thanks again!


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